Storm clouds fold the horizon.
Some old god of native origin
whose name I cannot pronounce
Ghostly buffalo thunder-quakes the ground.
The indifference inflicted upon this land
was guided by American hands
in the European tradition.
This conquest experience is not unique to America.
I fear the day she turns it upon me.
My fearing becomes a subtle prayer
hand-pressed inside each hesitation
to do the fair and just action.
I am not done waiting for Jesus to manifest
in all those people who wear Christianity.
A thunder-voice dares me to hold my breath.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney